


in memoriam

by wormguts



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Band-Aids, Blood and Injury, Bruce doesn't suck, Cute, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Love, M/M, One Shot, Protective Bruce Wayne, Short & Sweet, god this really is too cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 06:34:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20962061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormguts/pseuds/wormguts
Summary: Bruce Wayne patches up his boy, just like he used to.





	in memoriam

**Author's Note:**

> hey! so i marked this as both gen and m/m because it can be read either way. i was sitting here at 1 am thinking about how much jason just wants to be cared for/about and then this happened. if you like it, drop a comment! 
> 
> okok bye

.+. 

Red. A splatter of blood across his cheek. Bruce notices.

He doesn’t say anything. Then again, he never does. Not anymore.

He used to, before. He’d go, _‘hop on the bench, Jaylad, I’ll take a look at that.’_ He’d pretend to be put-upon in a very _Bruce_ way, but he was always gentle with him. Never rough. He’d make this face too, like he knew Jason secretly wanted his help. Like he knew Jason was too scared to ask.

He doesn’t do that now.

Jason very pointedly doesn’t look at Bruce patching himself up in his peripheral – and very pointedly doesn’t do anything resembling a _hop_ onto the med bench. He fiddles with the antiseptics and gauze and Batman band-aids (really Alfred?) and doesn’t think. Doesn’t remember. It’s easier that way.

Demon brat, over at his own medical area of the Cave, curses something colorful. Jason leers at the kid attempting to stitch his back up by himself. He’s got quite a mouth on him now. Jason would almost be proud if he didn’t detest the brat so much.

“This is not funny, Todd!” Batman Jr. seethes.

Jason haphazardly sticks a band-aid onto his bloody cheek. “Kinda is,” he says. He avoids a towel thrown for his head with a cackle.

“Enough,” Batman’s voice sounds, and both boys still. Bruce, half out of his suit, half on the road to indecency, strides over to Damian with a calm sort of exasperation only Batman can manage. He takes the thread and needle from Damian and picks up where he left off without a hitch. Jason watches the seamless exchange with dread sinking low in his belly.

He keeps on watching, forgetting there’s a knife wound in his arm sluggishly bleeding through his clothes, onto the med bench, staining his skin – until Bruce looks up and catches his eye.

Jason shrinks. Hurriedly, he breaks the only real contact they’ve had all night. He feels burned. Outed. He shrugs off his jacket for something to do, dicks around with the straps on his holsters. Anything to distract himself from the feeling of Bruce’s eyes on him.

God, he feels fourteen all over again.

Eventually, Damian’s pride must get the better of him, or maybe the embarrassment has taken its toll, because he noticeably stiffens. “I can do this by myself,” he insists, ears a suspicious shade of pink.

Bruce offers a simple, “I know,” and ignores the scowl it earns him. But, even with the attitude, Jason can tell Damian isn’t angry. If he were, he would’ve told Batman to fuck right off into the sun and thrown a knife or some shit. He wouldn’t sit there and let it happen.

Jason knows all too well what it feels like under Bruce Wayne’s attentive care, is uncomfortably familiar with how it looks from the outside. Damian is soaking up the rare display of tenderness. Jason watches from across the Cave, a lump in his throat.

Bruce finishes quickly, efficiently. He pats Damian’s shoulder, says something softly to him, and Damian takes his leave up the stairs with a (less resentful than usual) goodnight called over his shoulder. Once the door closes behind the clock, Jason feels Bruce’s eyes on him once more.

It’s like fire and ice at the same time. He feels goosebumps rise on his arms, the hairs on the back of his neck rising in alarm.

Then: “Take your shirt off.”

Jason startles more at the touch to his knee than the words. He blinks wide eyes into Bruce’s face, now beside him. “What?”

“Your arm,” Bruce explains patiently, “I need to see it.”

Jason feels like cradling his arm to his chest and pouting. Or shooting someone. He wisely does neither. Instead, he wordlessly complies, if only to avoid Bruce’s intense... _attention_. 

And then he remembers. The easy jokes. The huff of breath that meant he’d succeeded in making Bruce laugh – again. The gentle touch of strong, scarred hands. The brush of lips to the top of his head when Bruce thought him asleep. The tall, all-encompassing man Jason never thought he’d live up to. His childhood hero. His best friend.

He knows he doesn’t start crying because if he did, Bruce would have done that awkward mouth thing where he’s stuck between wanting to say something and not wanting to draw attention to the fact that _the_ _Red fucking Hood is crying_. It always ends up making things all the worse, but Jason supposes it isn’t all that bad. At least Bruce doesn’t make fun of him.

Jason hiccups.

Bruce pauses in wrapping gauze around Jason’s arm. “Jay?” he says, hesitance bleeding through every muscle. He’s as gentle as Jason remembers.

Jason must be shaking. He knows he is when Bruce stops altogether and touches his knee again.

“You must be more injured than I thought,” Bruce thinks aloud, and moves to get antibiotics or one of Zatanna’s magical artifacts or something. Jason reaches out and catches his hand. “Jay—?”

He’s as warm and strong as Jason remembers, too. He buries his face into Bruce’s neck, wrapping his arms tight around his bare shoulders. He doesn’t care that it hurts like a bitch. He holds on for life.

He holds on because he knows he’ll have to let go.

Bruce makes a noise deep in his throat, a soft thing. He slowly encases Jason, pressing into his body from between his legs. Even on the med bench, Jason isn’t taller than Bruce. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be.

“Oh, Jason,” Bruce breathes, his lips in Jason’s hair. It’s just like he remembers. He sinks into Bruce, his body relaxing in a way it hasn’t in a long, long while. He hiccups again. This time, Bruce hugs him closer.

“’m fine—” Jason attempts to explain so this doesn’t snowball into another thorn in each of their sides, but Bruce shushes him.

“Just—just let me. For a moment,” he whispers. Jason shivers at the rasp in his voice, the protectiveness of his hold. He could bask in this forever.

But Bruce pulls away after the moment stretches on too long. Rather than step away, pretend this didn’t happen, return to silent hurt and fleeting glances, Bruce stays put. He cups Jason’s cheek in one strong, scarred hand, and—and—

Kisses Jason’s cheek, right over the Batman band-aid.

Jason could break.

“Better?” Bruce asks, just like he used to when he’d make Jason hurt a little less, feel a bit better about his last fuck-up with a small smile and the care Jason so desperately craved. The band-aids never did much for the pain, but Bruce’s love filled in the cracks just fine.

So it’s a little less shaky, a little less scared when Jason says, “Better,” back. Because even now, with too much hurt and bitterness between them, Bruce notices.


End file.
